


Wayward Souls

by mandaree1



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Mostly an introspective piece, Wirt is trying to be a better big bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:31:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9071797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandaree1/pseuds/mandaree1
Summary: It's not easy being in the present era again.





	

Wirt admits to having some trouble getting to his feet properly once woken from the Unknown, but otherwise gives no complaint as he's herded tearfully to the car. Night blooms as he crawls onto the right side seat in the back. Weariness gnawed at him.

"I'm sleepy." Greg mumbles. Those bags are starting to tug at his eyes again. He and Jason Funderburker- the frog, not the boy- practically fall onto Wirt's lap, using his knees as a conveniently placed pillow.

His skin is cold. Wirt feels his heart sicken, idly twinning pale fingers through his hair.

He'd left his brother to die. Twice, now. His lap was fair bounty, as far as he was concerned. Wirt didn't _care_ if their parents stared a bit. Things are different now.

* * *

Greg seems to sneak out the window just before the house began to stir, because he appears for breakfast at the front door, hands muddied. He waves them, sending greetings from Mrs. Daniel.

Wirt picks at a bowl of dry cereal. He just ate some yesturday, physically, but his soul had wandered far longer. He couldn't quite grasp cheerios as food this early in the day.

Greg stuck his tongue out at his own bowl. "Mom, if Wirt and I catch a bird can we cook it?"

" _What_?"

"Turkey is loads better than this junk. That's all I'm sayin'." He shrugged and somewhat sat down, standing on the wooden dining room chair. Jason Funderburker croaked supportively from under the table. "They're not easy to catch, though."

Wirt knows to cut Greg some slack. He's still too young to quite comprehend that to catch was to kill. He wasn't entirely innocent- he'd seen people pluck feathers and take out innards- but he didn't correlate the two in his daily routine. Maybe it was best he never did.

"Let's save the poultry for Thanksgiving," Greg's dad said. Wirt shot him a side glance but didn't reply. "Why don't you two boys go watch TV?"

Greg has a habit of bowling right on over people, and dabbles in it now, excitably turning to his brother. "Can we go play in the woods?"

He'd forgotten they even _had_ a small patch of trees nearby, but he doubted it was big enough to be considered woodland. You'd be out in less than a day's time. "Not today, Greg." Wirt chides, finally looking up from his cereal to grab the glass of milk his mother had so kindly brought him to pour over the cheerios. "You need to regain your strength, and I need a day off."

Again, he pouted, but at least he sat down this time. Wirt dumped the untouched breakfast down the sink and washed the dishes, eventually coming to grips with a day on the couch. The quiet static of the TV drones like hornets in his ears; how had he ever been adjusted to it? He fumbles for the remote and has to re-learn the buttons.

"I gave it back, Wirt," Greg tugs on the sleeve of his v-neck. "I put my rock facts rock where it belongs."

"Oh. Uh, that's good, I guess," He fumbles for words. Talking to Greg like a brother and not a nuisance is going to take time. "I'm proud? I'm supposed to be proud, right?"

"I hope Mrs. Daniel won't be too mad. I snuck over her fence."

"It was a rock. As important as it was to you, I don't think she felt the same way. But we'll get you a new rock. Then you... I dunno, you can show her how cool it is. For a rock."

"Okay!" He chirps, then glues his eyes to the screen. Wirt notices his legs twitch periodically throughout the day, full of unspent energy.

* * *

Wirt manages to make Greg stay home long enough for them both to get re-used to the softer fabric of their hoodies and sweatpants before finally succumbing to the allure of the trees.

You can see them off to the side of the path they take to walk home from school, silent and waiting, and it's odd that he never used to give them much thought. Wirt feels no fear as they trek inside. Rather, his spirits start to lift. There were no Beasts here. No magic. There hasn't been a sniff of wildcat in years. They could walk as far as he wanted and not worry about getting lost or missed.

They pick mushrooms and toss them at each other. They find leaves and press them onto the blank pages of his poetry book for safekeeping. They find a stream and follow it, ducking across a log to avoid poison ivy, letting themselves be carried by the pull of the waves as it leads them to a pond.

"Lake!" Greg cheers.

"I think it's a bit small to be a lake, Greg."

He either doesn't hear him or ignores him. Wirt likes to believe it's the former. "This is the perfect place for Jason Funderburker to play! Maybe he'll even make a few tadpoles with a lady frog!"

"We _still_ don't know its' gender." Wirt points out. Greg shushes him and takes the frog to the very edge of the pond, setting him down to frolic.

"That settles it," Greg proclaims, hands on his hips. "We gotta call this place Jason Lake."

"Still not a lake."

Wirt settles in at the treeline to look over their leaves. It's a unanimous decision not to look this place up on a map; knowing its' official title would spoil the fun.

* * *

His room is familiar but in a distant manner. Being lost in the Unknown had gifted him a level of comfort in harsh planes like a sack or ground, and his bed feels too soft, like it could pop and leave him baffled on the floor.

Wirt is most as ease sitting at his desk, writing out little observations he'd made throughout the day. Not poetic; more of a journal entry.

Little footsteps hark the approach of his brother, and Wirt lifts his head as he bursts into the room, mildly annoyed. "Don't slam my door."

"Do you have any markers?" Greg stuck greedy little hands into his drawers.

"Don't you?"

"It won't be as special with mine."

Wirt rolled his eyes and pointed at his bookbag. Greg pounced.

His heart ticked at the thought of going back to school. He felt like a newborn, struggling to grasp at any knowledge he once possessed. Like a piece of parchment on a dark ocean, it wavered and sunk.

He'd have to learn the entire year over again. He might not even pass. That should probably petrify his senses, but all it did was leave a hard rock in his throat.

"There!" He turned around triumphantly to showcase a small rock, a set of eyes and mouth messily painted on. "Our pebble is complete."

"Your new rock facts rock?"

" _Our_ new rock facts rock," He proudly stated. "Well, it's a pebble, really. But a pebble facts pebble doesn't sound good."

"Postulations," He says. "That's a word, I mean. You could use that."

"A pebble postmail-regulations pebble!" Greg holds it up like a baby prince being presented to its' earthly kingdom.

"That sounds nothing like postulations."

* * *

Wirt is still awake when Greg crawls into his bed. Judging by his internal clock it's maybe two in the morning, when most of the world on this side of the globe is sleeping.

"Hey, Wirt?" He whispers, pressing close against his side. "Can I show you something?"

Wirt is old enough to know there's only one real response to a question like that. "That depends. Will I _like_ whatever you want to show me?"

"Can I?" He insists.

Wirt sighs. "Fine."

"Yay!" Greg jumps to his knees, springs squeaking underneath him. Tiny fingers wrap around Wirt's arm, beckoning he follow him into the covers. "Come on!"

It's an imaginary thing, then. Wirt swallows his complaints and follows, knowing full well that the sooner he gets it over with the sooner he can try to fall asleep. A familiar weight suddenly finds itself on his shoulders and head, and the smell of summer and decay touches his nose.

Wirt opens his eyes to find himself back in the Unknown.

He doesn't know why he's so certain it's the Unknown. He just does. The sunlight streaming through the branches is reminiscent of a photograph he once saw in an album.

"Isn't it great?" Greg asks when met with flabbergasted silence. His Halloween costume is on as well. "I found a secret way back!"

" _Greg_!" He hisses, because he has to get the fact that this is wrong across. He has to. "What if you'd gotten stuck here?"

For a moment he blinks at him, uncomprehending. Then Greg's mouth splits into a toothy grin he expects is meant to be reassuring. "I would've beaten the Beast again and come home!"

Wirt's shoulders hitch. They'd left the scene before the Woodsman had made up his mind. What if the Beast still _was_ out here? Did a creature like that hold grudges? If it did, was he able to sense their presence? Darkness and maybe a little stomach acid clawed at Wirt's throat. "We need to leave."

"Don't you like it here?" Greg's lips quirk downwards in a frown. "Don't you miss it too?"

"That's besides the point, Greg," Wirt whipped around, cape flaring. It scared him how natural and missed it was, the flapping. "It's dangerous to be here. Let's go home."

(Of course, he feels a great sense of loss when they crawl back through a log. Wirt wants to bury himself in those woods, find Beatrice and share a meal together. Was she still a bird? So stubborn and prideful; it really wouldn't shock him if she was still punishing herself. He really, seriously hoped not.

Wirt's voices exactly none of this.)

* * *

It's hard to voice his disapproval while still being at Greg's side most of the day; not counting school, of course, which is a different matter entirely, and a tad more hellish than the Unknown is in a passive-aggressive way. Wirt settles for shorter, clipped sentences and a lot of "hmph!"-ing. He really is trying his best, you know.

Greg gives his mild temper tantrum exactly two seconds of concern and then goes about the daily grind. Fair enough, Wirt supposes- he's been much, much meaner to the boy than this. Not to mention that school has been taking its' toll on both of them, prompting more and more time spent in the spot of trees that some people have the gall to call a forest. It'd odd to think that he's gone through sprawling landscapes in spirit while his body hasn't even left the state.

Thankfully, his body is slowly turning back to the form he's used to. His hands are covered in callouses and his legs are able to go farther and farther before giving out. Trees are becoming easier to climb and he's not so terrified of deep water. Wirt doubts he'll ever be a swimmer, but perhaps, with time, he'll be able to dip his toes in again.

The colder winds of winter have started to blow. His body is weak, but his soul doesn't flinch to it. Deep down, he's a survivor in the skin of a boy.

* * *

"Does it ever weird you out?" Sara asks over lunch one day. "The stories Greg tells, I mean."

He flips his fork back and forth in his fake spaghetti, trying to conjure up the audacity to fool himself it'll taste alright. Wirt stares at it and shrugs. "I'm trying to be a better brother to him now."

"Yeah, but the stuff he goes on about..." She shuddered. "It's a tad creepy, don't you think?"

It's not his fault, his mind whispers. It's not Greg's fault that people take his words of dark creatures and soul-holding lanterns and shove them into the category of a child's imagination. It's not Greg's fault that he remembers the horrific sensation of tree branches gripping hold and growing out of your skin. No, that's all on Wirt, and it's for that reason alone he has no right to agree with her.

"Greg talks a lot in his sleep. S'probably just night terrors." Wirt forces himself to shove a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth to avoid talking more. Gross but necessary.

"And you never deny them or anything, either. You just kinda... let him go." She probes without sounding too nosy, which he takes as a plus. "Is that a protective big bro thing? It's really sweet, whatever it is."

Wirt wonders if this is really the best time to say the words that bubble up in his throat. Honestly, he's not sure if they should ever be said. It's almost as if they lose meaning when they're brought to fruition, like iron turns to rust in the air and sea. They become weaker, less important.

"Well, he's been through a lot, you know?" He mumbles, finding himself unable to tear his eyes away from his meal. "Somebody has to be brave for him. If that means letting him go off on his own, then that's what I'll do."

* * *

Wirt knows they're wayward souls. He's pretty sure Greg does too.

It's something you always hear in books; someone comes back from the dead and they become lost in the monotony.

He feels disconnected and off to the side, a bit slow and confused to everyday situations. Greg scribbles pictures in notebooks and makes stories, and Wirt conducts music as best as he can for a child with decent skills in clarinet. Everything else that might exist is a farce.

His heart has gone to the place of unending roots and star-filled nights. To a place far, far away from here, with a bird and a boy by his side. Sometimes, he even dreams he's a tree, motionless in a place of natural silence.

They're wayward, but they're moving forward. That's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I re-watched Over the Garden Wall and had some feels, so here's a oneshot. I really love these two dorks and I hope I did them justice.


End file.
